Connection
by JinniaFlyer450
Summary: Encounters between countries and...other personifications-their religious beliefs-over the years. Originally called, "Chance Meeting", before I decided to add more chapters.
1. Death Camp

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetaila: Axis Powers or anything affiliated with the series. However, Rachel and the other DeoDeo! OCs are mine. Well, the characters are. The ideas they stand for are most definitely not of my creation!**

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

Ludwig Beilschmidt, otherwise known as Germany, marched through the snow. It was his turn to patrol this section of the camp, and he wasn't going to disobey orders.

In his heart of hearts, he knew it was wrong to do what was being done to the Jews, but…his people were downtrodden and hopeless, and the Fuhrer had restored their pride, a reason for them to be, even. He wasn't going to disobey that.

It was cold that night. Snow was falling in silent swirls, being ironically beautiful. Even the other guards would admit there was nothing of beauty there, though their reasons were often racist. Even worse, there were men who insisted that there _was_ beauty here—that millions of devils were dying; wasn't that beauty? Ludwig did not find it beautiful, but he had to do it. His boss would not be pleased if he didn't, and his boss was not pleasant to deal with when angry. Ludwig had the bruises to prove it.

A shadow played on the wall of one of the barracks. Ludwig whipped around, but saw no one. Convinced that it was just a mirage, he moved on.

Then, there was the _thud_.

Ludwig turned around again and found one of the prisoners on the ground. She looked to be in her late teens, but something about her belied maturity. At present she was trembling, holding her ragged, patched clothing to her emaciated frame, and obviously expecting Ludwig to sic his dogs or pull his gun on her. That was what the other guards did.

There was something about her, though, that said he should not shoot. It wasn't compassion…or even guilt…

Why did it feel like it would be useless to shoot her?

Somewhere under that youthful face and terrified facade, there was something that was daring him, almost _begging_ him to shoot. It was tempered, though; with something Ludwig could not place...hopelessness? Did she think that it would not be enough to end the madness?

She was right.

Ludwig knew that this one death would not change anything for the world.

So, he gestured roughly toward the barracks and watched as she scampered away.

At least _this_ one's blood would not be on his hands when the smoke cleared.

The brown-haired girl huddled in the barracks. She glanced at the people around her empathetically. She knew their pain. How could she not, when they were her children? She had a bond to _all_ of their souls—at least, the ones that were Jewish.

_…_

She had been persecuted before…but, oh, never like this. Her children, the little ones, were being sent away by the hundreds to die in these camps…stupid German bastards…why?

Rachel (for that was the name she had chosen) just wanted it over. She didn't care if she went to paradise or Sheol. Sheol could not be worse than a death camp. It just would be nice, she mused, to close her eyes, and escape her withering body and addled mind forever.

She would dream about other days, of course. That was how she stayed semi-sane. She would be in Western House and Christina and Aladdin would be little again, begging for stories from the Torah and bickering…but no, they were grown now, with their own mistakes…she could not be responsible for them. Where had those days gone?

They had had their own little family of sorts in Western House. Rachel was not the biological mother of the other two, but she had taken care of them as if she was. After all, they all came from Father, and Father would have wanted Al and Christy to live. They all remembered Father in one way or another, and he was a perfect presence. Much more than any of them could ever hope to be.

Rachel could also remember being small and playing with others long passed…Helen and Osiris and Gilgamesh. Of course, her favorite was still around. Parvati had been her mentor. Even Parvati herself didn't know how old she was—the sweet brown-skinned girl just shrugged and smiled when asked. Rachel bet that even when the Messiah came, Parvati would still be there, squealing "Holy cow!" like she always would when surprised.

Rachel could feel the irony in this. Parvati was by far the oldest of…_their_ kind that was still alive in a meaningful sense, and yet she behaved as the baby. The Eastern House was definitely more peaceful than the Western House…unless Aladdin was there. For some reason, Aladdin and Parvati did not like each other. At all. And sometimes, it could get pretty messy if they were in the same room for too long.

Rachel would even appreciate Siddhartha right now. The silly boy would meditate in the oddest of places, and Rachel was forever tripping over him, but he was a good kid. No one hated him; nor had they any reason to. He was simply a listening ear—a comfortable silence. When he did talk, none of the residents of Western House could understand what he was staying. Oh, the _words_ were clear as crystal, but that boy made no sense! Parvati and Fujin understood, but they were occasionally as hard to read as Sid was.

Rachel felt tears forming in her eyes. No. She could see none of them right now. What use was there in thinking about someone who couldn't rescue her?

She was alone in this.

That was all she knew for sure.

No, maybe not completely alone.

She had searched the eyes of the man who caught her. He did not hate her. He thought this was hopeless, just as she did. He was resigned to his fate, just as she was. Rachel wondered if he was more than a simple person as well. He wasn't one of _her_ kind, obviously, but she got the feeling that he was also older than he looked. She had met countries before—Feliks was one of her best friends! Perhaps that was it.

Whoever he was, he had enough humanity left in him not to kill her.

And for that, Rachel was grateful.

At least someone in that country had a soul.


	2. Gandhi

**Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia or anything affiliated with it. The DeoDeo! personifications are mine, but the ideas behind them aren't. Please don't sue!**

The whole world was watching.

The whole world was grieving with them.

America was there. He was the hero, after all. He needed to be there to commiserate with India for the loss of a fine, fine man.

He felt something warm slip down his face as Mahatma Gandhi's funeral train kicked up clouds of dust.

Wait. What were those kids doing? Why were they getting so close to the train! He had to stop them, or they would get crushed! He lunged forward, only to be hauled back by his collar, choking and gagging. He turned around and blinked.

The girl was blonde, and had a bridge of freckles over her nose. She was dressed in black—many were. However, this one looked familiar.

"Alfred, don't. They won't get killed. They know better," the girl whispered. "Do you remember me?"

America scrutinized her. Yes, she was familiar. But from where…wait…? America's mouth dropped open in shock. "Chrissy?"

The girl giggled. "About time! Just because you're supposedly a haven for _all_ of us doesn't mean you can forget about me!" She gave him a hug, and he realized that she had been crying as well.

"Okay, Chrissy. Say hi to Rach for me! And, say…didn't you tell me you were going to introduce me to some of your other friends? One of them lives _right_ here mostly, doesn't she?

Chrissy sighed darkly. "That might not be a good idea. Parvati…I think she was closer to him than the rest of us."

Alfred gulped.

Oops.

If one looked hard enough, one could see that there were two forms trying to keep as close to the body as possible.

One was a dark-skinned girl. Though she looked a wreck now, the laugh lines on her face showed that this was not a common occurrence. Her sari swished around her feet, kicking up dirt—not that she cared. Her Gandhiji was dead—what else mattered?

The other was a medium-skinned boy. He kept his head down, staring at the pebbles, always keeping a hand on the coffin. He wore a robe that looked a little too big for him, and his turban fell lazily over one eye.

For once, they walked together. Gandhi would have liked that. The strange little man had met with them several times. At the beginning, he could not convince the pair of them to even sit in the same room, but eventually he could get them to sit next to each other without pulling knives to each other's throats, which was the norm. They both thought highly of him—laughed at his jokes, shared his vision…and now he was gone, and they were left.

They knew they should be used to this. They had met many "children" of theirs, and had to watch them slip through their fingers. They thought they would have this one for a second longer, however. He was the one who had shown them that maybe, just maybe, they could get along, and their bitter rivalry could end forever.

The boy felt the girl grab his hand. Tears sprung to his eyes. It was okay to cry. Christina, Rachel, Siddhartha, and Fuujin were in the crowd, and they had all been crying as well.

Now Parvati and Aladdin had to finish this alone, and they didn't know if they could do it.


End file.
